


But I know, darling, that you do

by bogwitch268



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Mage Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Racism, Religious Conflict, adaar is a charming boy, atheist inquisitor, seriously anti-qunari racism gives me feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:14:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27339262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bogwitch268/pseuds/bogwitch268
Summary: Kaaras Adaar didn't believe in the Maker. He didn't believe in anything, much. But he believed in her, and maybe that meant a little more than he was preparing for.A series of vignettes from the life of charming flirt and existential nightmare Kaaras Adaar, how he fell for one stubborn Seeker, and what belief really feels like.
Relationships: Male Adaar/Cassandra Pentaghast, Male Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	But I know, darling, that you do

**Author's Note:**

> I don't believe in an interventionist god, but I know, darling, that you do  
> But if I did, I would kneel down and ask Him not to intervene when it came to you. - Nick Cave

The tavern was quiet. The road from Val Royeaux had been busy with travellers, bedraggled looking merchants and families clutching wares and heirlooms close to their chests or loaded on carts pulled by thinning horses, though it seemed that none had seen fit to stop at the small, unassuming tavern on the border. Cassandra was grateful for the peace; she hadn’t expected their reception in the capital to be a warm one, but Lucius’ announcement had given the confrontation a far frostier edge than she’d anticipated. The Chantry’s refusal – or worse, inability – to support the fledgling Inquisition now loomed like a chasm on its horizon.

The Inquisition, meagre as it was, had drawn attention on the road. Small children had squawked from their fathers’ shoulders, pointing small, stubby fingers at the small group (now two larger than their journey in, for whom Cassandra still held silent reservations), while pallid women had audibly gasped and grizzled young men visibly bristled. A strange group, to be certain – two scruffy elves, a beardless dwarf, and Orlais’ finest player of the Game in the wagon, led by a disgraced Seeker and a horned giant on horseback. Cassandra wondered, not for the first time, if they would have attracted quite so much attention without the latter. When the scouts had half dragged, half carried the unconscious man to Haven, a task which had itself required three of their strongest men, Cassandra had felt that same pang of discomfort she saw on the Orlesians’ faces; the black horns capped with bronze, the thick grey hide, the violet eyes, the sheer _size_ of the man. A Qunari. _Here on behalf of the Qun?_ she had wondered, her stomach twisting at the thought of the sheer devastation such an attack would provoke. The Chantry would order an Exalted March on Par Vollen. Thousands would be killed, tortured, or their minds turned to soup, by the actions of this heathen. But then he had spoken. _He is no Qunari_ , Leliana had muttered to her some time later. _I’ve had dealings with the Qunari. This man is Tal-Vashoth_. Ignorant, admittedly, of what this really meant, Cassandra had assumed the man’s piety, that not only was he Andraste’s Herald, but that he somehow _knew_ he was. Perhaps the assumption had been born of desperate hope on her own part. The assumption had seemingly, however, been wrong.

 _“You’ve said you don’t believe you’re chosen. Does that mean,_ ” she had asked out in the snow, _“You also don’t believe in the Maker?_ ”

“ _You’re asking me?_”

She hadn’t asked again. It hadn’t been an answer, not really, but it had said more than a simple yes or no could have. Cassandra thought again of the horrified faces of Val Royeaux’s citizens as Adaar had strode through the square, bronze-tipped horns glinting in the midday sun and massive, toned chest bare beneath leather strapping. _“I’m not sure that wearing your… cultural attire will be warmly received in the capital, Your Grace_ ,” Josephine had carefully suggested back at Haven three days prior. Adaar had simply chuckled, a low rumble thundering from somewhere deep in his broad chest, and smiled at the ambassador with the roguish charm he seemed to exude.

“ _Are you asking me to put a shirt on, lady Ambassador?_ ” 

Josephine had flushed to a faint shade of magenta. “ _I simply worry for the impression that your… well, your appearance may cause our… friends at Val Royeaux to startle_.”

Adaar had chuckled again. “ _I’d agree with you, but I think the sight of me wrestling with human clothes might paint us as more a circus than a force_. _Besides_ ,” he’d continued, strapping the heavy heartwood staff he wielded to his back, “ _between the horns and the magic, I’d guess they’re going to find something they dislike, shirt or no shirt._ ” He’d grinned. “ _Perks of having a saarebas as your Herald, I suppose_.”

Enchanter Vivienne had retired to the room she had paid for – “ _Darling, I must insist on taking my own room._ ” – and Sera, the strange elf that Adaar had, for reasons Cassandra couldn’t yet fathom, invited along, had long since turned in for the night, snoring loudly with mouth agape on the bench below the window. Cassandra sat still at their little table in the corner of the quiet tavern, Solas quietly swilling a cup of water and gazing serenely out of the window, Varric diligently buffing his crossbow, and the Herald staring silently into his tankard. The vessel looked tiny in his hand. The company had not spoken for some time. Across the table, Varric caught Cassandra’s eye and flicked his gaze to the qunari. She caught his meaning. Since his last, sardonic joke as they turned their backs on Val Royeaux – “ _And_ _here I thought they were just starting to like me_.” – Adaar had spent most of their journey in silence.

“You okay there, big guy?” Varric’s voice cut through the silence. “Been quiet for a while.”

Adaar blinked, looking up from his mug. “Hm?”

“I said are you alright – that was tough going, even for you.”

The qunari gave a wry half-smile and shrugged his massive shoulders. “If I’m honest I wasn’t expecting much Chantry support.” He flicked his eyes to Cassandra. “Though I’m sorry it turned out how it did. I wasn’t banking on the templars to just abandon their people like that.”

“I think Varric means,” Cassandra shot back, as delicately as she could, “that the people weren’t exactly… welcoming. To you. Personally.”

Addar barked out a short, harsh laugh. “What, the oxman thing? Nah, I’m used to it. Not the first time, definitely won’t be the last.” He flicked a finger against a thick horn. “These’ll do it every time.”

“Still,” Cassandra continued, her brow furrowed. “It is unpleasant to see our kind turned so easily to prejudice, even when you bring the Maker’s word.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw the corners of Solas’ lips twitch. “If by _your kind_ you mean humans, Lady Cassandra, in my experience you do it so much better than most,” he said, blithely. Cassandra pursed her lips.

“We get it wherever we go,” sighed Adaar, taking a swig from his tankard and signalling the barkeep for a refill. “’Argh, an oxman!’ ‘I ‘eard zey eat children!’, ‘They’ll steal yer prize goats and convert ‘em to the kyoon, they will!’” He sighed. “As if I’m a walking advertisement for the fuckin’ Qun anyway, y’know?”

“You don’t follow any of its tenets, then?” asked Solas, curiously.

Adaar let out another harsh laugh. “I’m a mage, Solas.”

“I see.”

“And,” continued the qunari, holding out his tankard for the wide-eyed serving girl to refill, violet eyes quickly raking over her curves before turning back to his companions, “what’s more, it’s all a crock of shit, isn’t it? _Asit tal-eb_ , ‘the way it should be’, right? What does that even mean?”

“What _do_ you believe, Adaar?” Cassandra blinked as the question seemingly fell out of her mouth without thinking. She rarely called the Herald by his name, preferring the professionalism of _Herald._

Adaar simply looked at her. Under that impenetrable purple gaze, Cassandra suddenly found herself fighting a blush. _Don’t be such a schoolgirl_ , she thought, harshly.

“You’ve asked me this before, Seeker.”

“I asked if you believe in the Maker. You did not give an answer.”

“It’s a heavy question. Is there really an answer to give?”

Cassandra thought for a moment. “Yes. I believe that everyone believes in something. Except for you, it seems.”

“That’s right.”

She blinked. “You… You don’t believe in anything?”

Adaar took a long, thoughtful draught of ale. “I believe in what I know. What I can feel. I know the Fade is real. I know pain is real. I know sex is real. I _believe_ in those things and how they change people, how they make people act. I don’t know that some mythical robed man in the sky who sees all of my sins and loves me to little pieces is real.”

“Belief in the Maker can also change people, make them act. Look at where we are now.”

“No offence, Seeker, but I think that too much believing is what got us into this mess. I don’t think it’s going to get us out of it.”

“What do you mean?”

He sighed, placing his mug back on the table and turning to her, fixing her again with those eyes. She wondered for a moment if they were the exact shade of the lightning magic he used. “Let me put it this way. Dwarves worship rocks, no offence, Varric.” The dwarf simply nodded in amusement. “The elves think that their gods are dead and lost, but still worship them. Right?” he asked, gesturing to Solas. The elf raised an eyebrow.

“I would not have put it so bluntly, but yes.”

“Right. And humans have spent the past couple centuries self-flagellating because they believe that their own creator hates them.” He paused, almost daring the Seeker to rebuke. She did not. “Then there’s the qunari. Order out of chaos, strength in community, all well and good until someone doesn’t want to be a street sweeper anyone, when they get tortured into thinking that actually, sweeping streets is the best thing ever.” Adaar took another swig and leaned back in his chair. “Belief is a nice enough thing, Seeker, but right now everyone’s just looking up at the hole in the sky and thinking, ‘Damn, I wonder when this thing I believe in is going to come and save me.’”

“But you are saving them. _We_ are saving them.”

“That’s not because of the Maker, Cassandra. That’s – ” Adaar halted, wincing slightly at the harshness of his words. “That’s because of you. You started this thing.”

“And I believe that the Maker chose you. That Andraste chose you. They give you your mark to help to save people, to make a difference to these people’s lives. That must count for something?”

Varric seemed to sense the tone in Cassandra’s voice, or saw the flicker of frustration in Adaar’s face. “As fun as proselytising is, we’ve got a long ride tomorrow and I for one am looking forward to a bed that isn’t a roll on a chantry floor,” he sighed, sliding the crossbow off the table as he got to his feet. “Looks like Chuckles has already gone. You two have fun putting the world to rights.” He winked at Adaar, whistling as he headed away through the tavern.

Solas had indeed slipped away, leaving only Cassandra and Adaar at the table. The darkening night sky outside, still tinged a sickly green, seemed a world away from the soft amber glow of the inn’s candlelight. In the reflection of the window, Cassandra saw her own figure, usually so tall and angular, seem small and soft next to the Herald’s bulky grey frame.

“I know you believe in the Maker,” said Adaar, softer than before. “And… I know so does almost everyone else. And I get it,” he urged, “I do. It’s… It’s an honour that you have that faith in me.”

“But?”

“But…” he sighed. “But it’s asking me to take a lot on a faith that really, _really_ doesn’t want me in it.”

Cassandra nodded. “The Chantry has been too harsh on those it does not understand. And for what it’s worth,” she added, “I am sorry for that.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No,” she said, forcefully, before sighing. “You are no Andrastian. And you are being asked much in Her name. I cannot expect you to blindly believe just because of that.”

“I’d be happy if they stopped accusing the Inquisition of being Qunari agents for a few days.”

They lapsed into silence for a while. In the background, the tavern thrummed quietly, the chinks of bottles and low hum of voices from the few travellers who sought respite from the road. Cassandra was acutely aware of the eyes that trailed over the Herald’s form, from the suspicious gaze of weary men to the excitable curiosity in the eyes of the two barmaids whispering among themselves. A vague memory of yesterday spurred into Cassandra’s mind. “That was something I hadn’t expected,” she muttered.

“What?” Adaar brought his gaze back to her. _He looks so directly_ , she thought. _As if he wants to see as much as he hears._

“The accusations. ‘A wicked Qunari sent to subvert the Maker’s word’. ‘To whisper your Qun against the Chant’. I had expected some… resistance to you, but not to accuse us of being puppets of the Qun.”

Adaar grinned ruefully. “Tell me, Seeker,” he said, turning toward her fully. “Did you _not_ think exactly the same when you first met me?”

Cassandra couldn’t fight the scarlet that blossomed furiously in her face. “I did,” she admitted. “I am not proud of it. But yes, my first thought was that you had been sent to murder Justinia as an act of war.”

Adaar snorted. “See.”

“In those circumstances, it seemed a reasonable conclusion.”

“I don’t disagree. But you can see why I’m used to it. But,” he continued, sipping his ale, “they shouldn’t use their fear of the big bad oxman to tarnish the Inquisition. _That’s_ what bothers me.”

“They are welcome to try. Let us see how well that fares them.”

Another silence, companionable this time. A giggle from the bar. Adaar’s eyes flickered to the girls, and Cassandra suddenly felt a stab of irritation. “You seem popular,” she remarked, drily. Adaar chuckled.

“Revulsion and curiosity, Seeker, are strange bedfellows.” He grinned. And then, “How do you believe, Cassandra?”

The Seeker cocked her head. “You know what I believe.”

“No,” the qunari shook his head. “No, I know _what_ you believe. I asked _how_ do you believe.”

Cassandra frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Adaar sat back in his chair. “You believe in the Maker, that Andraste sent me to help people. You’ve said that.” He tilted his head back, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. The bronze tips of his horns nearly brushed the nape of his thick neck. “I wonder _how_ you believe that. How does it make you feel? How does it… I don’t know, how does it influence you?”

Cassandra was silent for a moment, eyeing her own mug of untouched ale. “It’s a heavy question,” she shot back, and Adaar grinned. She sighed heavily. “My faith gives me strength. That I know. I know that when I am lost, the Maker is the light by which I can find my way home.”

“You don’t believe He guides you home himself?”

She shook her head. “No. The Maker is not a doting mother fawning over His children. He does not tell me which path to take – I choose that path, and trust that should it be the wrong one, He will show me how to right it.”

Adaar nodded slowly. “You follow your own path,” he said, softly, “but faith is how you navigate that.”

Cassandra shot the qunari a curious look. “Yes,” she said. “Or something like that. Why do you ask?”

He shrugged. “Not sure,” he replied, seeming to emerge from a reverie. “Think I’m just trying to understand it.”

“I’m sure the Chantry will be pleased.”

Adaar laughed. “We should send a messenger. ‘Revered Mothers, please be informed that the heathen Herald is asking questions about the Maker. Send holy water and lyrium immediately for a swift exorcism’.” The qunari smiled. “You know, Seeker, I don’t think we’re so dissimilar.”


End file.
